Saint Patrick's Day has come and is now fast waning. The sun has sunk
behind the chimney-stack of the New Albion dance-hall; the street lamps
are lighted and are faintly contending against the dull glow of the late
afternoon.
There is a lull between day and evening. All day there has been a stir
in the city. There has been a procession in green sashes, with harps on
the banners,--a long procession, in barouches, on horseback, and afoot.
There have been impassioned addresses before the Hibernian Society and
the Saint Peter's Young Men's Irish Catholic Benevolent Association.
There has been more or less celebration in Ship Street.
The evening advances. It is seven o'clock. Strains of invitation issue
from all the dance-halls. Already the people have begun to file in to
the Day-Star Mission. The audience-room is on the street floor. The
missionary stands at the open door, with anxious smiles, urging decorum.
A knot of idlers on each side of the doorway, on the sidewalk, comment
freely on him and on those who enter. Every moment or two a policeman
forces them back.
At a quarter of seven a preliminary praise-meeting begins. Singing from
within jars against the fiddling from over the way. You hear at once
"Come to Jesus just now!" and "Old Dan Tucker."
Already the seats are filled,--eight in a settee; those who come
now will have to stand. Still, people continue to file in: laborers,
Portuguese sewing-women, two or three firemen in long-tailed coats
and silver buttons, from Hook and Ladder Six, in the next block;
gross-looking women, _habitués_ of the Mission, with children; women
who are _habitués_ of no mission; prosperous saloon-keepers; one of the
councilmen of the ward,--he is a saloon-keeper too.
Dr. Parsons's train brought him to town in good season. He passed in
with other invited guests at the private door, and he has been upon the
platform for ten minutes. His daughter is beside him; ten or a dozen of
his parishioners, who have come too, occupy seats directly in front.
The platform seats are nearly all taken; it is time to begin. The
street-door opens and a passage is made for a new-comer. It is Mr.
Martin. A contingent from his church come with him and fill the few
chairs that are still reserved about the desk.
Now all would appear to be ready; but there is still a few moments'
pause. The missionary is probably completing some preliminary
arrangements. The audience sit in stolid expectation.
Dr. Parsons, from beneath his eyebrows, is studying the faces before
him. In this short time his address has entirely changed form in his
mind. It was simple as he had planned it; it must be simpler yet But he
has felt the pulse of the people before him. He feels that he can hold
them, that he can stir them.
Meanwhile a whispered colloquy is going on, at the rear of the platform,
between the missionary and the chairman of the committee for the
evening. The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic,
the chairman flushed. In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons's
shoulder. He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly.
There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Through some
mistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the life
of Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care. He is one of
the Mission's most influential friends; his church is among its chief
benefactors. It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsons
give way to Mr. Martin?
So it is all over. The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again upon
those hard, dreary faces,--his no longer. He has not realized until
now how he has been looking forward to this evening. But the vision has
fled. No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears. No reaching these
dull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore: that privilege
is another's.
But the chairman again draws near. Will Dr. Parsons make the opening
prayer?
The Doctor bows assent. He folds his arms and closes his eyes. You can
see that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation for
prayer. It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel in
which they have been bounding along.
Now all is ready. The missionary touches a bell, the signal for silence.
The Doctor rises. For a moment he stands looking over the rows on rows
of hardened faces,--looking on those whom he has so longed to reach. He
raises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins.
It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasion
which had brought us together. It was natural to recall that we were
come to celebrate the birth of an uncommon man. It was natural to
suggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floating
about in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man like
us, of flesh and blood. It was natural to add that he was a man born
centuries ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island across
the sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light. It was
natural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nations
to claim the good man's birthplace. It was natural to suggest that
if about the sweet memories of this man's life fancy had fondly woven
countless legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them all
the saintly power of the man of God. What though his infant hand may
not have caused earthly waters to gush from the ground and heal the
blindness of the ministering priest, nevertheless doth childhood ever
call forth a well-spring of life, giving fresh sight to the blind,--to
teacher and taught.
But why go on? Who has not heard, again and again, the old-fashioned
prayer wherein all is laid forth, in outline, but with distinctness! We
give thanks for this. May this be impressed upon our hearts. May this
lead us solemnly to reflect.
The heart that is full must overflow,--if not in one way, then in
another.
Mr. Martin has not been told about Dr. Parsons. He sits and listens as
the Doctor goes on in the innocence of his heart, pouring forth with
warmth and fervor the life of the saint according to William Bullen
Morris, Priest of the Oratory,--pouring forth in unmistakable detail Mr.
Martin's projected discourse.
The prayer is ended; a hymn is sung, and then the missionary presents
to the audience the Rev. Mr. Martin, whom they are always delighted to
hear; he will now address them upon the life of Saint Patrick.
Mr. Martin rises. He takes a sip of water. He coughs slightly. He passes
his handkerchief across his lips. So far all is well. But the prayer is
in his mind. Moreover, he unfortunately catches his wife's eye, with a
suggestion of suppressed merriment in it.
What does he say? What can he say? There are certain vague lessons from
the saint's virtues; some applications of what the Doctor has set forth;
that is all. Saint Patrick was sober; we should be sober. Saint Patrick
was kind; we should be kind.
Even his own parishioners admitted that he had not been "happy" on this
particular occasion.
But at the close of the meeting Dr. Parsons received a compliment. As
he descended from the platform, Mr. John Keenan, who kept the
best-appointed bar-room on the street, advanced to meet him. Mr. Keenan
was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind. He grasped the Doctor's hand.
"I wish, sir," he said, with a fine brogue, "to congratulate you upon
your very eloquent prayer. It remind me, sir,--and I take pleasure to
say it,--it remind me, sir, of the Honorable John Kelly's noble oration
on Daniel O'Connell."
Late that evening the Doctor stood at his study-window, looking out for
a moment before retiring to rest. There was no light in the room, and
the maps and the charts and the tall book-shelves were only outlines.
There was a glimmer from a farm-house two miles away, where they were
watching with the dead.
The Doctor's daughter came in with a light in her hand to bid her father
good-night.
"What did you think, Pauline," he said to her, "of Mr. Martin's talk?"
It had not been mentioned till now.
Pauline hardly knew what to think. She knew that it was not what the
Rev. Dr. Parsons would have given them! But, honestly, what did her
father think of it?
The Doctor mused for a moment; then he gave his judgment. "I think," he
said, "that it showed a certain lack of preparation."